AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“They’re etched onto my brain. I don’t want to go back to prison.”
“And I don’t want you to.” The bureaucrat hesitated, then said, “You were a hell of a ballplayer, Griff. A thrill to watch.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, good luck today.”
That chore out of the way, Griff headed for the shower. It had furry black stuff growing on the tile grout, but to his surprise the hot water was plentiful. He dressed quickly but carefully, choosing the best from the clothing Wyatt Turner had left in the apartment for him. He made a mental note to ask his lawyer where the rest of his stuff was being stored and how he could go about retrieving it.
Then he remembered that if the Speakmans came through with their down payment, he could go out and buy all new stuff. The thought made his gut purl with happy anticipation.
However, he wouldn’t know until after two o’clock today if they’d come through as promised. In the meantime, he had other errands to run.
He got to the walk-in medical clinic at eight-thirty and was out in under an hour. “How soon before I can pick up the lab results?”
“Three to five days.”
“Make it three,” he said, giving the nurse a wink and his best smile. Simpering, she promised to try. Obviously she didn’t follow Cowboys football.
From the clinic he drove to a branch of the public library—the one nearest his former Turtle Creek address. He doubted there was one in the neighborhood of his present apartment, doubted many of the residents in the area could read.
He arrived at the library only to discover it didn’t open until ten. A cluster of toddlers and young mothers—when had young mothers got so damn good looking?—had congregated at the doors waiting for them to open.
Moms and kids alike regarded him curiously. At six feet four he towered over all of them. The cut and bruise on his cheekbone, Rodarte’s contribution, drew their attention, too, making him feel particularly conspicuous among the Thursday Morning Story Time at the Library crowd.
Once the doors were unlocked, the moms herded their children to a far corner while he went to the information desk. The librarian smiled pleasantly and asked what she could do for him. “I need to use a computer. And I’ll probably need some help.”
Five years of advancement in computer technology equaled aeons. But the librarian patiently showed him how to access the Internet and do a Google search, and soon he was knee-deep in information on SunSouth Airlines and, more specifically, its owner.
First, he got an overview of Foster Speakman’s background. Starting in the 1920s with his great-great-grandfather, his family had amassed a fortune from oil and natural gas. As sole heir, Foster was bequeathed megamillions in addition to vast parcels of land in New Mexico, Colorado, and Alaska.
He held an MBA from Harvard Business School and was a polo player of renown. He had received countless citations and awards from business and civic groups for community service. Economic analysts lauded his courageous takeover and turnaround of the foundering airline.
If he’d been a football player, Speakman would have been the starting quarterback for the Super Bowl champs and voted MVP.
He and Mrs. Speakman—not Laura—were photographed attending various
charity and social functions. One photograph accompanying an article in Forbes showed Foster standing tall and proud in front of a SunSouth jet, arms crossed over his chest, looking like a man who’d just conquered the world. He appeared robust and strong.
Which meant that somewhere between the time he’d bought the airline several years ago and now, he’d become paraplegic. Illness? Cataclysmic event?
While pondering the possibilities, Griff came across Elaine Speakman’s lengthy obituary. She had died after a valorous and lengthy battle with leukemia. No children had come from the marriage.
The widower had married Laura Speakman one year and five months following Elaine’s death.
Foster and Elaine had been well represented in the press. But Foster and Mrs. Speakman II were featured nearly daily—which explained his allusion to their being celebrities.
Then Griff found what he’d been looking for. One year and seventy days into their marriage, Foster and Laura Speakman’s lives were irrevocably changed. The story made the front page of The Dallas Morning News under a banner headline and a graphic photograph. The news hadn’t reached Big Spring. Or if it had, he’d missed it. Or if he had heard about it, he’d forgotten it because it didn’t pertain to him and he’d had no interest.
Griff read the story twice. There were links to numerous follow-up stories. He read them all, then, using the back icon, returned to the original story and read it yet again. And when for the third time he reached that telling sentence, which explained so much, he sat back in his chair and said, “Huh.”
It was a nice neighborhood. Unlike the one he’d grown up in, there were no loose shutters or curling window screens on these houses. Lawns were mowed, hedges were clipped, and flower beds were weeded. The basketball hoops actually had baskets, and if the driveways were littered with anything, it was shiny bikes and skateboards, not rusted-out cars sitting on blocks.
Although this neighborhood was younger by twenty years, it had the same kind of “family” feel as the one where Coach and Ellie Miller lived. Where he’d lived from the day Coach had removed him from his mother’s ramshackle place. Coach had contacted Child Protective Services and handled the legalities, which were incomprehensible and uninteresting to Griff as a fifteen-year-old. He supposed Coach got himself appointed his guardian. In any case, he’d stayed with the Millers until he graduated high school and went away to play football for the University of Texas.
He located the address he sought and drove past the house slowly, checking it out. On either side of the front door was a pot of white flowers. Above the backyard fence, Griff could see the top of a swimming pool slide. Two kids were tossing a football back and forth on the front lawn. They were old enough to be cautious of strangers and eyed Griff warily as he slowly rolled past.
He went to the end of the block and turned the corner. He realized his palms were damp with apprehension. And that made him angry at himself. Why the hell should his palms be sweating? He had as much right as anybody to be on these nicely maintained streets. The people who lived here were no better than he was.
